Page 17 of Johnny

Yacht? I think that might be the most beautiful word in the English language.

And with that I let it all go.

Whatever happens next is out of my control.

Who am I kidding?

I’ve never been in control.

The next thing I know I’m drowning. Coughing, and sputtering, and trying to drink all the water at

the same time.

“Take it easy,” he says. “I didn’t carry your ass two fucking miles across a goddamned tropical

island in the middle of the sweltering August heat to have you drown in a cup of water.”

I don’t give a fuck what he did. I suck that water down like a vacuum, finishing every drop in the

cup. He takes it from me and it’s only then that I realize he’s been holding me up so I can drink. And I

only realize it now because he gently lays me back, my head falling into a soft cushion of a sweet-

smelling pillowcase, contrasting so hard with me, a filthy, disgusting mess, that I begin to smell

myself.

I don’t care anymore. I just don’t care.

“Here,” he says. “Drink a little more. Then you have to stop.”

I shake my head because I want to drink fountains of water. Just stick a hose down my throat, I

don’t mind.

“You can’t rehydrate that way,” he says, reading my mind. “It doesn’t work. It’s a process and you

need a lot more than water right now.”

His voice isn’t as hard when he says this. And he has a tone of authority. Like he knows what he’s

talking about.

It’s a nice change. Having someone know what they’re doing—when it doesn’t have anything to do

with threats and torture, that is.

A shooting pain in my arm, then a burning sensation.

I gasp and pull away. But his grip is strong and pulls my weak arm back into position. “It’s fine,”

he says, a little annoyed with my reaction. “I found an IV kit and some electrolytes in the underground

infirmary.”

I’m too tired to fight so I stop. Just lie there with my eyes closed. Feeling a little better. Just enough

to doze off.